


Deleted Files

by oh_my_stars_and_sky



Series: Deleted Files [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexual John, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Romance, Telepathy, Well I mean kinda telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_my_stars_and_sky/pseuds/oh_my_stars_and_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Sherlock deletes something from his mind, it appears in John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mummy

The first time it happened, John was eight years old. It was a lazy Sunday, and his dad had taken Harry to the movies with her friends, so it was just him and his mum. She was in her study, having told him to go outside and play with her soft, apologetic smile that meant she'd have no time for him today, as usual.

And so out John had went, barefoot in the mid April dew, clad in a too-short pair of corduroy trousers and the same tee shirt he'd worn the day before, running to the old oak tree in the left corner of their rather small backyard. With some difficulty, he climbed onto the swing that hung from its ancient branches, too high for him still, as it had been built for Harry. And then, it happened. It popped into his head out of no where, in firm, bold, uppercase lettering. 

Mummy likes Mycroft more.

John blinked a couple of times, tried to get it to go away, but it wouldn't, and so he started crying. He leapt off the swing, and shot in the back door, up the stairs, and threw open the door to his mum's study.

"Who's Mycroft?" he tearfully shouted, stomping his foot. His mother set down her wine glass on the desk and turned in her swivel chair towards him.

"What's the matter, dear?" She asked. She was a beautiful woman, caring and kind, but if one were to look at the charging port of her phone, he'd find many scratches. John threw himself into her arms, sobbing. 

"Why do you like Mycroft more?" he managed between sobs. The words were still sharp and fully formed and weren't going away.

His mother seemed confused, more so than usual, and so she simply ran her fingers through his hair and said, "Dear, I don't know anyone named Mycroft, and even if I did I'd never love him more than I love you." John's tears, at this, began to subside, and he gave a little cough as he sat up.

"You promise?" He speaked.

"Yes, dear. Now go and play. I've still got to finish this paperwork." 

And with that, she saw him out of the room, back downstairs, back outside, back to the tree. But the words were still there.

Mummy likes Mycroft more. 

"You're wrong", he said aloud, "my mummy loves me."


	2. The Beginnings of Binary Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which further deletion occurs, and things take a turn for the darker. 
> 
> Warnings for mentions of addiction and abuse and a slight mention of sex.

It didn't happen again until he was thirteen. He was in the middle of English class, not paying attention to his teacher, thinking about Harry, who was undoubtedly getting high in the girls' bathroom instead of going to class, who had begged him not to tell their father when he'd found her cigarettes, and thinking about what his therapist had said about his refusal to go to his mother's funeral (John, it's only natural to feel angry at the situation, especially considering her....um...dependency on alcohol and the part that played in her liver failure, but she was your mother, and she loved you) and neither of those things were what a thirteen year old should be thinking about in the middle of third period English.

He hadn't really though about the bold-faced 'Mummy likes Mycroft' in a while. They'd never really faded, or gone away, per se, but he'd found he could file them away in the back of his mind under 'Things Not To Be Questioned', in between the fact that the sky was blue and grass was green.

He used to ponder them sometimes, when he got bored, wonder where they came from and what they meant, but it didn't matter anymore. Whether Mummy liked Mycroft more. 

His mum was dead.

But at any rate, there he was, fiddling with his pen and decidedly not writing down the reading assignment for over the weekend when he found himself suddenly inundated with nearly a volume full of that same, neat, bold uppercase type.

The solar system.  
It was practically the entire solar system, written out. All the names of all the constellations;  
Andromeda  
Antlia  
Apus  
Aquarius  
Aquila....  
All of them, in alphabetical order, and paragraph upon paragraph on something called binary stars, which was apparently a phenomenon that occurred when two stars that began as individual became gravitationally bound to one another until the larger of the two drained the smaller or, in rarer circumstance, when they were perfectly balanced, they burned out together. There were, after that, full essays on all nine planets.

And at the end, a footnote, labeled very important:

The earth goes 'round the sun.

Now, the introduction of so much information at once to John’s brain has not been a pleasant one. If his first experience with the bold, uppercase letters had made him cry, this one rendered him entirely incapacitated, head in his hands, on his desk. 

There was just so MUCH.

It was all so, so LOUD, as if all the sentences swimming in his mind in that damned unfailing font were reading themselves out loud all at once, and he couldn't make them stop.

The bell marking the end of the period rang, and while it's shrill pitch added momentarily to the cacophony it released him to gym class, which was a reprieve from the pitying teachers, always tiptoeing around 'the poor, motherless Watson boy' and their boring lectures. Gym class was also easier to get out of. He had only to tell the coach he had a headache and he was allowed to sit on the sidelines, all the while with his head pounding with the approximate density of Saturn and the causation of Jupiter's red spot.

He found, about halfway through gym class, that if he really, really focused, and took in the bits of information one at a time and internalized them, he could file them away, in the same place he'd put 'Mummy likes Mycroft more' and the color of the sky. However, given the sheer quantity of the information it still took him all of gym class and most of the next period hiding in the locker room before his head was clear enough to think properly again.

That day, as it would turn out, with the solar system during third period English, was really the opening of the floodgates. The bold-faced words began popping up more and more, though hardly ever in such bulk as the solar system had been delivered. Soon they began arriving at least once a day, sometimes in short, clinical snipets on things like the average lifespan of beetles, and sometimes of a more personal in nature, pertaining to people he didn't know, often someone called Mycroft, who was apparently gay and very much in the closet and dating someone named Greg. Sometimes the words would declare seemingly trivial things, such as how to make tea properly (those instructions came up on several occasions) and on one particularly interesting day, John was awoken by a compilation of chord charts in the bold-faced print and the utmost confidence that he could now play guitar.

He's never held a guitar before in his life, but sure enough when he borrowed one from a friend, he knew the notes and rhythms as though he's been playing since the womb.

He starts to look forward to it, once he has a handle on filing it away. Its...well, it's interesting. And it's proven helpful on several occasions. 

He passed astronomy with high marks, anyway.

...............

As he approaches uni, the words typed in bold-faced take a turn for the dark.

'Victor's cheating on you' woke John up multiple times. These words in particular were delivered to John in a muddle of sadness, mixed in with searing bits of pain and anger and this, John doesn't know how to handle this. The words, he can file away, but the pain stays.

'Victor thinks you're a freak' shows up at least twice a day for a week after this. These words are also drowning in agony, and John cannot help but to want to soothe them, to comfort them, although he knows that's ridiculous, they're only words, and then he wonders if he's going crazy, having random sentences about people he doesn't know and things he doesn't care about pop into his head randomly, and then he wonders if he isn't bloody mental for not thinking maybe there might be something a little off kilter about his mental health before then.

But mostly he just wishes he could help the poor words. 

It is a week later, a week addled by bizarre half sentences and incoherent mumbling from the bold print, that he got what appears to be a full anthology in the familiar font on one Victor Trevor, presumably the Victor of 'Victor's cheating on you' and 'Victor thinks you're a freak'. This only makes him want to help the words more, because the only word mentioned almost as many times as Victor's name in the mammoth, seemingly endless flow of words is the word cocaine. 

Apparently, Victor's guy deals the best cocaine. 

And sex with Victor while on cocaine is akin to heaven.

But if one were to upset Victor by 'acting like a freak', said cocaine would be withheld. If one were to further upset Victor, would could expect to be having to explain away a black eye or perhaps and fractured wrist.

It sickened John, it really did. Whoever Victor was, he belonged in jail. But what could John do? He wasn't even entirely sure Victor Trevor was a real person.

Still, John cried himself to sleep that night in the privacy of his bedroom for whomever had fallen prey to the likes of Victor Trevor, wishing, in his tears, he could help them to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I promise it's not all going to be this depressing, but in my head neither of them had particularly happy childhoods. Next chapter will be out as soon as I finish writing it. :)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	3. The Three Hearts of an Octopus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John goes to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, this is the last of the dark stuff for a while.  
> Heads up for slight john/sholto

Once uni began, John should have had little time to worry about the words. He was studying to be a doctor, after all, and while he was quite smart, the coursework was still rather intensive. Despite this, John found that his concern only grew. Most of what came through of the bold-faced type had become muddled, incoherent, unfinished thoughts. 

Then comes a day when, almost a year into uni, John is awoken by the vehement words:

The last of the drugs and the blades are under the third tile to the left of the refrigerator. 

These are regretful, ashamed words. It takes John nearly three hours to file them away, and the whole time he can practically feel whomever the words belonged to on the brink of falling apart.

Not that he, John Watson, was in much better state of mind. Through the rest of uni and over the course of med school, he bailed his sister out of jail thirty-three times, got into eight bar fights himself, went to six funerals (it was just him and Harry now left, of his whole family), bedded sixty-four people (all the women in his class besides five, plus a third of the men and a plethora of women picked up at bars), and made exactly one friend. Mike Stamford.  
But even Mike didn't really count, they were only friends because they were roommates.

He was just so ANGRY. His whole family, dead, except for his drunkard sister who was now practically his ward, he was friendless, he couldn't hold a steady relationship for more than 20 seconds, and the only person he really wanted to even commiserate with was whoever the source of the words was, and he wasn't even sure he or she existed.

He was sure they'd understand, though, this anger of his. They'd probably know what to do with it too. John, on the other hand, has no clue. What does one do with this sort of anger?

..........................................

Apparently, one joins the army. It turns out to be a better idea than it appears at face value; John's suited to it. It's a funny thing, probably says terrifying things about his psyche, that the first time John Watson ever felt at peace was when he was going to war. He gets on well with his squadron, and even the words seem more hopeful than before. 

They become John's guilty pleasure under the hot Afghan sun, in the dry, arid desert where such pleasures are rare. He'd lie awake at night, going through the file, organizing and reorganizing it; by date, by topic, alphabetically, from his favorite ( an octopus has three hearts; therefore, I suppose, if he gets his heart broken, he has two spares) to his least favorite ( the Victor Trevor anthology). The new ones he receives, with more regularity and more coherency, almost like in the beginning, keep his mind sharp, give him something to ponder and, oddly, something to live for.

After all, if he gets shot, he won't get to hear what the words have to say next.

Sholto happens during his second tour, and marks his first long term relationship. Then, of course, everything goes to hell.

It all comes down to timing.

Sholto's set to take the new recruits out at 2300. Just protocol, nothing out of the ordinary, but dangerous, nonetheless.

At 2130, John is awoken by Sholto's gentle whispers.

"John. John, wake up." John's eyes blinked open, his vision hazy in the darkness but clear enough to make out his lover's face hovering above his own.

"Hey James." He says, using Sholto's first name, something that he knows will make Sholto blush. "Aren't you taking the new recruits out?"

"Not till 2300. We've got time."comes Sholto's reply, husky and deep and he's still hovering just above John so John reaches up and buries his hand in Sholto's hair and brings their lips together roughly, and then proceeds to flip Sholto over onto his back, pressing him down into the too small army cot. 

"Is that so? We better make good use of it then."

....

Which they did. Which would've been all fine and well. Except that they fell asleep afterwards. Except that they didn't wake up till 2330, and Sholto and the recruits didn't get out till 2345, and after that. Well.

John doesn't like to think about what happened after that. 

Sholto, still alive, but just barely.

All the recruits, dead.

And when it came down to it, really, it was all just a matter of timing. 

If Sholto had been getting the recruits out at 2300, instead of being spooned by a short, muscular, dishwater blonde, Sholto and the recruits wouldn't have encountered what they encountered when they did finally get out. The recruits wouldn't be dead.

Sholto doesn't talk to him after that. Not that he can even talk for the first six months after the incident, but no attempts at any kind of contact at all are made.

Part of John wants to write him a letter, but he doesn't know what he would say. He's almost grateful Sholto doesn't write him, because he doesn't know what he'd want to hear. He doesn't want Sholto to hate him, but by the same token he doesn't want to listen to Sholto talk about how it's not John's fault, what happened.

Because in John's mind, it always will be.

So he let's his last real memory of Sholto be one of love, rather than of the fallout and aftermath.  
......

With Sholto gone, the words become John's only solace besides the sheer, unadulterated adrenaline of war. He's not sure, anymore, if he wants to get shot, wants to go home, or wants to just stay here, in this little bubble away from the rest of the world.

In the end, the choice is made for him. He doesn't remember the bullet piercing him, but he does remember pushing the man in front of him down so the other soldier won't get hit. He awakens to aggressively florescent hospital lights and a backlog of the words. He processes them slowly as he recovers, bedridden, savoring and pondering each and every one. 

But even the words can't change the fact that he is very, very broken. If he were an octopus, he reckons he'd be down to his last heart.

Then he meets Mike Stamford in a park, by chance.

And he doesn't know it, but with in 44 hours everything will have changed in extraordinary ways.


	4. Smiling is a Human Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets an old friend, makes a new one, and has a revelation.

Mike saw  him before he saw Mike, which was, retrospectively, probably a good thing, because had it been the other way around John would've taken pains to avoid him. It happened on a blustery September afternoon when the sky's gray hues seemed to seep into everything, and everyone, making the buildings John shuffled past seem to sag and the trees seem to wither and the passerbys blur into essentially the same nondescript ashen figure. And alone in the midst of this fading world, in the middle of a park, leaning heavily on a cane,  was John,fighting hard to maintain his golden tones well earned on the hot Afghan desert. But try as he might, even his sun stained hair and once sun kissed skin began to reflect the pallor of all that was around him; and, on second inspection, perhaps his disposition had too, without the pounding adrenaline of the battlefield.

He came to the park often, the cool steel of his illegal handgun down the back of his trousers. It gave him a place to be, where no one would question his presence, no one would look twice at him, and he could avoid the pitying eyes that so often followed him.

It was also his favorite place to go through his file of the words, which had become something of an addiction. He had a permanent organization system for them now: there were personal tidbits, things about Mycroft and Greg, who were still together and still closeted, things about a Martha Hudson, who was apparently a former exotic dancer, and then there were the bits about crime. Recently, there were a lot of those, entire police files on cases. John figured the owner of the words to be an officer, probably. But at any rate, the crime words had a folder. Then came the random facts. These were the most common, and were John's favorite of all the words. Bits like 'Even blind people smile, despite never having seen a smile to emulate. Therefore, smiling is a basic human instinct.'

John was actually leaving the park when Mike spotted him and called him over. He came begrudgingly at first, put off by Mike's bustling optimism and obnoxiously red tie. John could tell that Mike was bothered by the monotonous gray their environment was clothed in and seemed to be attempting to counteract it by emulating Father Christmas. John hadn't the time or the energy to pretend to be cheerful, nor did he harbor any delusion that a change in his attitude might cause a change in the atmosphere, but he permitted Mike his bubble of falsified optimism as they got coffee and sat on a bench under the overcast sky.

When Mike said he might know someone who'd want John as a flatshare, John nearly laughed. He was an invalid, unemployed soldier with a psychosomatic limp and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder:not exactly prime flatshare material. But Mike didn't seem keen on taking no for an answer, so John agreed to go meet the man, if only because he had nothing better to do.

..........

Walking into the lab at St. Bart's, which was the same shade of gray as everything else, John's eyes were immediately drawn to the man leaning over a microscope. He was tall, and lanky, with thick, dark ringlets of hair enveloping his head. His skin was pale, and yet somehow the antithesis of the gray surrounding it. It was a lovely, light pink hue, and John drank it in greedily before he even realized he was staring. The man then turned and met John's eyes, and in that moment there ceased to be air in John Watson's lungs because the man's eyes were _technicolor._   Every shade of blue and green and purple, from the icy color of a frozen pond to the tropical hue of the rainforest's leaves. His lungs were on fire and he was drowning in those eyes and so he didn't even realize the man, the technicolor stranger, had spoken until he was being looked at expectantly for an answer.

"Wh..what?"he sputtered out, still a bit dazed by the quiet intensity of the man before him.

"Afghanistan" the stranger asked, the timbre of his voice deep and rumbling "or Iraq?"he finished, turning back to his microscope. 

The question hung in the air a moment as John tore his eyes away from the technicolor stranger back to Mike. "You told him about me?" He asked.

"Not a word."Mike replied smugly.

John turned back to the technicolor man, who was still hunched over a microscope.  "Afghanistan.  But how....how?"

But the stranger turned away, making notes on a chart on the wall. 

"How do you feel about the violin?"he asked, his voice as deep an ocean as his eyes.

"What?" Sputtered John again, feeling slightly stupid.

"Well," the man said, "I play the violin. Often. Sometimes at odd hours of the night. I can do entire stretches of days without speaking." The man paused, looking back at John. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John regains his senses a bit at this."Who said anything about flatmates? We don't even know each other.  For all you know, I could be a serial killer."

He narrowed his eyes at the stranger, in an attempt to look suspicious,  but he was already quite enraptured by the allure of the technicolor being who, at this, set down his microscope and strode over to John. With a deep breath, he began,

"Mike told me this morning I must be a hard man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly recently home from Afghanistan.  It wasn't much of a leap that he thought you'd make a good fit. As for knowing each other,  I know you're an army doctor who's been invalied home. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic and possibly because he just walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to go on, don't you think?"

John stood, flabbergasted,  feeling the corners of his mouth turn up into a small smile. At this, the stranger nodded, and headed to the door. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. The address is 221B Baker Street. And the name," he paused, halfway out the door,"is Sherlock Holmes." He winked, and with a flick of his coat, he was gone. John was rooted to the spot, the small smile still playing his lips.

"Sherlock Holmes" he said aloud, tasting the name on his tongue for the first time. He didn't know what, but he could tell this would mark the beginning of something.

........

John Watson was a good man. An honorable man. But he didn't for a second regret killing that cabbie.

'And well he shouldn't ' he tried to rationalize ' that cabbie was a murderer.'

'Ah, said a voice deeper within him 'but you weren't thinking about that when you shot him, were you? You were protecting Sherlock'

"So what if I was?"he replied defensively and he doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Sherlock is looking at him, bemused, from across the table of the Chinese restaurant they were eating in.

"Nothing. Sorry, I was just..."he began, before Sherlock cut him off. 

"Rationalizing?  Why you killed the cabbie."

"God, you really are brilliant, you know, "said John, grinning at him as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yes, I do know. And for future reference,  I'm not god. You really needn't worry, honestly, about the cabbie. You saved lives by killing him. My life. You saved my life. I...um...I appreciate it."Sherlock finished, looking slightly flustered. John could tell this wasn't something he did often, thanking people, and that made him feel more special than it should have.

"Well " John said,"that's what friends do, isn't it?"Sherlock looked up at him, momentarily confused, eyes clouded, but they cleared with realization in a moment as Sherlock’s face lit up in a slow grin.

"Yeah " he said,"friends."

And the two just smiled at each other in comfortable silence until Sherlock began to softly rattle off deductions about their fellow patrons as John listened, content and happy and at peace.

........

It wasn't until late that night when John received the words that something began bothering him. The type read

Brother was killer because of green paint under fingernails matching green ladder

And it clearly belonged in the crime folder but he couldn't shake the feeling he'd heard something like that before. And that wasn't the first time that day he'd had the feeling he'd heard something before.

Mycroft.

Sherlock’s brother was named Mycroft. 

Mycroft. 

Mycroft.

Mycroft.

The name was swimming around John's head as he fell asleep until just before he was about to tip into slumber's grasp he realized where he'd heard that name before.

His eyes flew open.

_The words._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, happy.  
> To be clear, this is a romantic johnlock fic but right now they're friends. Their relationship will evolve further in future chapters.  
> Thank you so much for reading, as always!


	5. The Adhesion of Super Glue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John has some internal conflict and makes further discoveries.

John sat bolt upright in his bed. This changed...well, it changed everything. If John was right, and Sherlock was the source of the words....

John felt sort of guilty. After all, if the words really were Sherlock's, John was privy to very private information about his life.  
But then, maybe Sherlock knew his thoughts (is that what they were? His thoughts? ) went somewhere?  
If he knew that, did he know they went to John?  
Did John's thoughts appear in Sherlock’s head?  
John didn’t think so,but then, really, how could he know?

The only way to be sure, he thought with grim resolve, was to ask. But surely, John figured, his eyelids heavy as anvils as dawn began to break outside (they really had stayed out late, hadn't they) that could wait until he'd gotten some well earned sleep.

John awoke to mid morning sunlight laying seize to his duvet and a violin sonata, light and airy, floating up the stairs, through his bedroom door, which stood ajar. He smiled sleepily to himself until his mind snapped back to his revelation the night before.

Oh.

Oh, good merciless god.

He was really going to have to ask, wasn't he? 

Well, either Sherlock would know what he was talking about or he would sound like a crazy person until he proved it.  
Or he'd sound like a crazy person and wouldn't be able to prove it.  
Or he really was crazy.

Those last two seemed to be the possible outcomes his mind was intent on focusing on, but regardless, he set his resolve and mounted the stairs. 

But as he reached the living room he was met with a rather breathtaking sight. The windows were open, and sunlight was streaming in in quiet cheerfulness. There, standing amidst it, was Sherlock Holmes, violin tucked under his chin, eyes shut softly, relaxed, clad in a blue dressing gown and, by the looks of it, not much else. His hair was tangled with sleep, haphazard and frizzed and sticking up at odd angles, and he was swaying to the music, his lips slightly parted. This was a different Sherlock than John had parted ways with the night previous. This was a softer, more vulnerable Sherlock, with air of peace about him.

The song came to a finish, and Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. He caught John's gaze, and something in the smile, the glisten of his eye shattered John's resolve to tell him about the words. He looked so...so trusting. It was gone in a moment, with Sherlock turning to put his violin away and ordering John to make him tea, but it had been there. Sherlock trusted him. And John couldn't bear to do anything that might damage that. And if what John believed to be true was correct, and Sherlock was the source of the words, then John really didn't want to jeopardize his trust.

It had been a very, very long time since the words had seemed trusting of anything. 

As John put the tea kettle on, he could hear Sherlock humming.

..................

It is later that day Sherlock tells John about deletion. Or rather, John walks in on Sherlock deleting something and is frightened so Sherlock has to explain.

John had been out shopping, as they were in need of milk, among other things, and had come home to Sherlock sprawled out on the floor, eyes squeezed shut as though he were focusing on something. He didn't appear to breathing properly, or really at all, so John called his name a couple times but to no avail, Sherlock didn't even seem to hear him, so John knelt down next to Sherlock and tentatively, poked him. At this, Sherlock sat bolt upright, eyes shooting open, and sputtered out ,

"Theingenuityoftheadhesionofsuperglueisthatitbondsinstantaniouslybutremaimstackyuntilanactualconnectionbetweentwosurfacesismade."

He then hugs his knees to his chest and huffs. John is, as he often is with Sherlock, a bit confused.

"What?" He asks, concerned.

Sherlock scoffs. "I know, quite useless. I'm not a craftsmen, I don't use superglue, which is why I was trying to delete it."

"Delete it?" John repeats, shifting to sit cross-legged. 

"Yes, yes delete it. Space on the hard drive. Though, as you can see, it is rather draining, so I try to limit myself to once a day. "

"Ah" says John, fighting to keep his face neutral. This is the source of the words, he's sure of it now. 

"Yes" replies Sherlock "now if you would leave me alone, I'd rather like to finish."

John walks deliberately over to the door, maintaining his composure as Sherlock lies back down. He takes the grocery bags and saunters to the kitchen to put them away. It is ten minutes later that John hears Sherlock hop to his feet, and receive words

The ingenuity of the adhesion of super glue is that it bonds instantaneously but remains tacky until an actual connection between two surfaces is made. 

And that's it. The final nail in the proverbial coffin. Sherlock is the source of the words, John's sure of it now. No question. 

And he really, really ought to tell him.  
He decides to try again.

"Sherlock?" He calls, "Sherlock, can you come in here for a moment?"

But he's met with an excited, "Not now John, Lestrade just texted, there's a case, c'mon!"

And with that, they're off, and John has no time to think about the words cause he's busy thinking about Sherlock himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next couple chapters'll be about a case.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading! :)


	6. Purple Flecks In Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a case begins, and Sherlock deletes something he shouldn't've, which leaves John with a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I am so sorry for the weight. Finals week at school. Next chapter should be up in the next couple of days. Thank you to all you lovely people who are reading and commenting and leaving kudos! I actually can't believe anyone is reading this.  
> Thanks as always  
> Oh my stars and sky

Lestrade was waiting for them when they arrived at the crime scene. A dingy old flat in a dodgey part of town, just the type of place you'd expect crime to strike. Their taxi arrived shortly after the forensics team had begun working, giving Lestrade a few minutes to brief John and Sherlock.

"Name's Amelia Markson. 20 years old. Orphan. No known family. She was in college, on full scholarship, getting good marks, no debt to speak of. She worked waitressing, at a restaurant uptown. She was found in the kitchen of her flat. Several stab wounds, bruised badly, scratched up, and a bullet to the leg. Her landlady, who lives underneath her, reported she'd arrived home just fine last night. And she locked her doors behind her."

"Who found her? " asked Sherlock, eyes closed, concentrating, his lips curled up in a small smile already. John could tell this was at least an eight. 

"The landlady, Ms. Werthman. She was worried when Amelia didn't leave for classes on time. Came up to check on her, and was met with a locked door and no answer. Thankfully, she's a bit nosy and as she's the landlady, she had a key. She's recovering from the shock at her sister's,cross town."

At this, Sherlock nodded, opened his eyes, and, motioning for John to follow, headed for the door to the building.

"You can't go in yet!" Lestrade protested lightly."forensics isn't done."

Sherlock huffed and turned on his heel to face Lestrade again. "Gavin, you and I both know that at best, they've figured out there's a dead body on the floor and at worst, they're compromising the crime scene. Just give me five minutes. You know it's your best shot at answers."

Lestrade looked somewhat helplessly to John, who simply shrugged with a wry smile and said, "he's right, you know."at which point, Lestrade gave in and phoned to Donovan and Anderson to give Sherlock his time. With a slight air of triumph Sherlock once again made his way to the door, John on his heels. As they climbed the stairs to the Markson flat, Sherlock's excitement was palpable. 

"This is going to be a good one, John." He said, half under his breath as they approached the landing of the flat."I can feel it."

As they reached the landing and the door to the flat, they were greeted by Donovan and Anderson.

"Well," said the Sergeant, coolly,as they passed, "if it isn't the freak and his pet."

Sherlock strode by in his usual cavalier style, calling back "morning Donovan! I see Anderson's floors must've been dirty again yesterday. Good thing you're always there to clean them." And rounded the corner, into the door to the flat. John, however, remained rooted to the spot, something triggering in his memory. 

Victor thinks you're a freak

Victor thinks you're a freak

You're a freak

A freak

Freak

She'd called him a freak.

John remembered the pain that had come with those words.

Victor thinks you're a freak.

It had washed over him, John, as he sat powerless in a bedroom, so ignorant then of how amazing Sherlock was, and yet still compelled to help him. To protect him. How could he not, feeling that pain?

Sally Donovan had just called Sherlock a freak.

John took a single, calculated breath in, and turned, sharp, to face Donovan.

"If you EVER" he said quietly, with an intensity that rivaled that of the atom bomb, "call him that again in my presence, I will snap your arm like a twig, and don't you doubt for a second that I could, and then proceed to make sure you never have the privilege of being in his presence again. Is that a understood?"

Before Donovan could answer, however, they were interrupted by the quiet noise of a breath being drawn sharply in. Both turned towards the sound to find Sherlock, standing in the door of the flat, who had evidently come back from his proceedings inside the flat itself to fetch John. He had an unreadable expression on his face. After a beat of silence, he cleared his throat.

"I...um...am in need of your assistance. John. With the body."

John nodded, and with a last, cold glare at Sally, followed Sherlock into the flat. 

.........................................

The body was lying in the middle of the kitchen in a pool of blood. The first thing that occurred to John upon looking at her was that Amelia Markson would have been a lovely woman. She had pale skin and a smooth complexion, and even in death her cheeks were rosy and pink. Her hair was like a sunset, strewn about her head on the floor. A vast, orange expanse flecked with gold and blonde streaks. Her eyes, though glassy from death's breath upon them, were the murky turquoise of a pond littered with lilly pads. She was a slight thing, with thick hips and an hourglass figure. She was clad in a purple blouse, a v neck with slight filling around the collar, and a black pencil skirt that ended round the knees. 

John thought he could probably admire her for hours longer, but it was here that the sordid became apparent, for her blouse was ripped and torn and quite bloodsoaked. There was a bullet hole in her left thigh, and by the looks of it at least four stab wounds to the abdomen. As he knelt beside the body, it became apparent that her arms were littered with bruises and scrapes, as were her legs. Her lip was split, and there was also a small knife wound in her neck.

" How long has she been dead?: Asked Sherlock, who was preoccupied looking around the room.

"Less than six hours. More than three."replied John. At this, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his Belstaff pulled out a pair of gloves, and tossed them to John. 

"Lift up her shirt, I need to look at the wounds." John complied, after having put on the gloves. There were two long gorges running parallel along her stomach, as well as several smaller stab wounds and scratches, as though by a cat. John backed off then, let Sherlock examine the body with his magnifying glass.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked, offering John the body back. John knelt down, and, after a moment, said

"Whoever did this used a large knife, and they weren't very good at using it. This is a messy job. She's scratched and bruised. A fight, maybe? But the door was locked."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes for a moment, then opening them. He turned and made quickly for the door, matter of factly. "We need to speak to Ms. Werthman. And then perhaps the girls employer."

John followed without comment.

.....................

Sherlock fidgeted for the entirety of the first half of the cab ride, muttering the word purple under his breath, until, when they were about halfway to their destination, he squeezed his eyes shut, and went still. John knew better than to disturb him, as he was presumably thinking, but a few minutes later Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and John felt the tell tale twinge in his head that heralded the arrival of the words. 

A purple fleck caught in wound.

John sighed, and set to filing them, which took only a few moments, as he had mastered it. He was a bit confused as to the meanings of the words, though, and why Sherlock would want to delete them, and so as carefully as he could, he breached the subject.

"Um, Sherlock? What did you do just there? When you shut your eyes?"

"Oh! Deletion, John, nothing to worry about." Replied Sherlock, who had resumed fidgeting but was no longer muttering. 

"What have you...er...deleted?" Asked John, treading lightly. 

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. " Well, I don't know anymore, john, that's the nature of successful deletion. Some useless tidbit, pertaining to the case. Something was bothering me about the body, but I'd already figured out its cause, and it didn't have any merit. But it was stalling my thought process so I deleted it."

"Oh." Said John, simply.

A purple fleck in the wound, he reflected.  
Ah. Her shirt had been purple. That was likely the cause.

They spent the rest of the ride in companionable silence.

...............................

Ms. Werthman was not the kind of woman one wanted to associate with. She didn't seem concerned in the slightest that a dead body had surfaced in a flat she owned, nor did she seem particularly distressed about having discovered it. She was heavily rouged, with long fake nails and bleached blonde hair, in a tight shirt dress with a deep neckline. Upon their arrival to her sister's flat, she set her gaze on John and Sherlock in a predatory manner. She might've been flirting, or she might not've; John couldn't tell really, for he was preoccupied with her nails.

They were long. Quite capable of scratching. 

They were also polished, but the veneer had not been maintained, for the paint was cracked in several places and missing altogether in a few others.

Paint which was the same hue of purple as that of the dead girls shirt.

Oh.  
OH. Thought John.

A purple fleck caught in the wound.

Sherlock didn't know, not anymore. 

Oh.

Oh good, merciless god.


	7. Portmanteau Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a case is wrapped up, and admissions are made.

He had to get Sherlock to reexamine the body. If he noticed the purple fleck the first time, he'd notice it the second. Hopefully. Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to have other plans. They had only spent a few minutes with Ms. Werthman, but that seemed to be all Sherlock needed.

"The pictures, John, did you see the pictures?" He asked, breathless, the minute the cab door slammed behind them.

"Pictures?" John asked, still preoccupied with how to get Sherlock to reexamine the body.

"Pictures of her. All over her sister's flat. Weird. Suspicious, even. But if she's been to the club...." the sentence trailed off there, as Sherlock became lost in thought.

John didn't even bother to ask what clubs Sherlock was talking about, nor did he dare disturb Sherlock while he was thinking.

..........................

Their cab soon parked outside a rather low brow establishment, way down town; the type of club frequented by intoxicated, lonely young people. John didn't recognize the name, but it looked rundown, unpopular. 

"Sherlock, what are we..." John started as they got out of the car, but Sherlock cut him off with a 

"Clubs, John, clubs! Just follow my lead."

The place was almost eerie, all the lights off, sun filtering through the windows. It was nearing noon on a Sunday, and while John Watson had never been a religious man, it still felt odd to stand amid stripper poles and booze stained tables at such an hour, on such a day.

"What are we looking for?"he asked, slightly uncomfortable for the environment and still preoccupied with the purple fleck. 

"Bouncers, John. They often take on daytime janitorial hours. More pay. They'll likely be around any...ah, here comes one!" He exclaimed before entirely realining himself as he did before shedding his character in favor of another for reconnaissance purposes, and approached the man who just entered the room.

"Hello sir, you work here, right? I was wondering if you could tell me if this woman was here last night?"he asked shoving his mobile, which undoubtedly held a picture of Ms. Werthman on its screen, in the man's face.

The man squared his shoulders, eyeing Sherlock up.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." At this, Sherlock tilted his head and smirked, reaching a hand into the pocket of his Belstaff, pulling out a wad of bills and handing them to the man.

"Yeah, she was here. Nine to, oh, about one in the morning. She's a regular here, that one."

"Thank you." said Sherlock, spinning on his heel and motioning for John to follow.

"But...but...but the pictures!" John sputtered "suspicious, you said!"

"Ah, improbable, but not impossible."

"But Sherlock! Sherlock, listen, I really, really thing you should examine the body one more time."

"What for?

"I just...just trust me, okay?"

Sherlock met his eye, a bemused expression on his face.

"Look, Molly probably has it by now. Maybe there's more...conclusive information about the time of death or...or cause."

"Well", said Sherlock, after a pause " a trip to the mourge might prove useful, if only because I need Molly's opinion on some of the more womanly aspects of the case. I can't help but feel I'm....missing something. "

John rolled his eyes at the irony as Sherlock hailed a cab.

...............

Molly did indeed have Ms. Markson's body laid out on the table waiting for them when they got to the mourge, and after asking her some entirely inappropriate questions about what kind of clothes she would wear if she wanted to have sex, which was apparently relevant to the case, Sherlock turned his attention to the body. He took out his magnifying glass and methodically examined it for the second time as Molly jittered nervously at his side.

"Can I get you anything? Is...is there anything I can do?" She asked, nervously fixing her hair.

"Um, no." Said Sherlock shortly, before hunching further over the body, intent. "There seem to be trace amounts of a purple substance in the scratches to her chest and abdomen. If I remember correctly, it's likely from her shirt, as it was purple, but"

"You should look at under a microscope." John blurted out. Sherlock and Molly both looked at him abruptly, Sherlock yet again bemused.

"Well, I can't follow up on my next idea for at least another hour and a half, so I suppose it might be worth a look. Molly, microscope." Molly hurriedly passed him a microscope, and for the next half hour Sherlock sat in silence, examining, and occasionally stopping to cross reference something. 

"Nail polish. John, it's nail polish." He said, suddenly looking up and breaking the silence. John did his best to act surprised. 

"Really? Sherlock, Ms. Werthman had purple nails! And they were all chipped."he said, relieved.

"Are you certain? Yes, you're right, they were, weren't they? But the clubs...the pictures....her sister! Ah, come on, John! " he cried, grabbing his coat and making for the door. 

.............................

 

The rest of the case was really quite simple, once all the pieces were in place. They had intercepted Ms. Werthman and her identical twin sister at said sister's apartment, and with fairly minimal effort, gotten a confession out of Ms. Werthman. Apparently, Ms. Markson had been sleeping with Ms. Werthman's boyfriend, and Ms. Werthman had found out, and killed her in revenge. She then found out where her twin had been when she killed Markson, and used it as her alibi. Lestrade was called, arrests were made, and John and Sherlock just managed to get away without having to give statements, freeing up the rest of their afternoon. At John’s insistence, they went straight to Angelo’s, as Sherlock hadn't eaten in two days.

Over dinner, Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet. John gave up on small talk early on, waiting for Sherlock to work through whatever was troubling him. Finally, in a quiet voice, he said

"You knew."

"What?" Asked John, internally panicking at what he knew was coming. 

" You knew about the nail polish. You saw it the first time we examined the body, didn't you? But that doesn't make sense. I had the magnifying glass."

John took a deep breath, took a pen out of his pocket, and handed it to Sherlock.

"Write something down on a napkin." He said. "Something inconsequential. Don't tell me what it is. Then put the napkin in your pocket, and delete whatever was on it."

"What..." Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"Just do it." He said, his voice slightly pleading.

Sherlock nodded curtly, and after a moment of though, scrawled down a line on the napkin in front of him and put it in his pocket. Then, fingers steepled, he sat, eyes closed tightly, for seven, perhaps eight minutes before his eyes snapped open and John's head began to twinge as the words arrived. 

Portmanteau words are created by splicing two words together, merging both sounds and meanings.

John smiled softly, and began. "Portmanteau words are created by splicing two words together, merging both sounds and meanings. That's what you have written, isn't it?"

Sherlock took the napkin out of his pocket, read it quickly, and then looked at John, his features once again unreadable. " But how....the deletion, right? Then, in the cab on the way to Ms. Werthman when I deleted something...it was the purple, wasn't it? Stupid. Bad form. Never know what might be important that early on. But how long....since we met? No, it's been longer than that, hasn't it, I can tell. It hasn't been....has it? Always, John? Has it been always?" 

John looked down, and nodded. "Since I was a kid. But I swear, I didn't realize it was you until yesterday. I'm so sorry Sherlock. I understand if you want me to go. I mean, obviously I don't want to be if you're..."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, I'd be lost without my blogger."Sherlock interjected, cutting him off. " And don't apologize, it's not your fault. You didn't ask for this, I presume. It's just...well, I need to think about it. Process it. Not now, later. Now, let's talk about...about the case. Let's talk about the case."

John visibly relaxed, and let out a chuckle. "I still can't believe Werthman killed Markson for sleeping with her boyfriend."

"Ah, such is often the downfall of a beautiful woman." Replied Sherlock, cavalier, taking a sip of her drink.

"Did you, Sherlock Holmes, just call a woman beautiful?!" John asked, flabbergasted. It was Sherlock's turn to chuckle then.

"Just because I don't usually see the point in pursuing them doesn't mean I don't find some people attractive, John." Sherlock looked pointedly to John at this, and if as they smiled quietly at each other in the comfortable candlelight, John's face began to flush, he blamed it on the glass of wine in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You guys are awesome. I promise they'll have a more lengthy conversation next chapter about the while deletion thing, but I felt like on the moment John would panicking and get all guilty and Sherlock would just want him to not worry.


	8. Alchemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock panics quietly, and John has to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading, as always. :)

It was strange. And not the good, Sherlock-ey, fingers-in-the-fridge, chasing-murderers-at-four-in-the-morning kind of strange. It was an unsettling feeling that had begun to quietly loom over the flat, a sort of calm before the storm type of dread. Sherlock was...off. More off than usual. It started with, of all things, a carton of milk.

Two days after the incident at Angelo’s, neither of them had had the guts to bring up what had been talked about there. Walking on eggshells, the both of them. There was a painful awkwardness between them, glaring and obvious and yet pointedly ignored by both. And then, the carton of milk. Sitting on the second shelf of their refrigerator, plain as day, honest to goodness milk. John was genuinely confused by its presence. He'd used up the last of the milk the day before, and he certainly hadn't purchased any more since then, and the only other person who logically would purchase milk for their flat would be Sherlock, but Sherlock would never...

John was jolted back into reality by the sound of the clearing of a throat by the entrance to their kitchen. He glanced over his shoulder to see Sherlock standing there, looking at him with a nervous tint in his eye. At this, John realized he was standing in their kitchen, holding their refrigerator open, and staring at a carton of milk as though it was God himself. He quickly shut the refrigerator and not knowing what else to do, retreated, slipping passed Sherlock to the door to their flat calling out nonsense about being back later.

.............................

He was, of course, back later. He couldn't leave Sherlock, not really. Not Sherlock. Sherlock, so smart, so stubborn, so snarky, so clever. Sherlock, lithe of limb with unruly raven curls and technicolor eyes, Sherlock, who could deduce the world, beautiful, indescribable Sherlock, who was at once so strong and so breakable. But when John got home, it wasn't to Sherlock. Oh, the genius was there, puttering nervously about their living room, but it was as though someone had drained every bit of him from the place.

The living room was immaculate. Floors scrubbed, shelves dusted, clutter gone, mantelpiece noticeably bare of its usual skull. John felt sick to his stomach. 

John cleared his throat, which seemed to be becoming the main form of communication between the two of them, and Sherlock said

"Ah, you're here!" Before retreating to his bedroom.

John made his way into the kitchen, which was scarily devoid of experiments, before opening the fridge. It was nearly empty, devoid of all the body parts and rancid left over take out, save for the carton of milk on the second shelf, which now held a post it:

"It's just milk, I promise.  
you seemed scared by it this morning.  
-SH"

John thought he might be sick.

...........

A week went by; a horrid, horrid week without any deletion, a week of walking on tip toe. John hated it. He hated every minute of it. He hated how little he saw of Sherlock, he hated how clean the flat was, how quiet it was, how nervous Sherlock seemed, the lack of chaos. Whenever John got home, Sherlock would shoot him a nervous smile and scurry off to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

The absence of Sherlock was telling. So very telling. It was debilitating. No, more the debilitating, it was paralyzing. Because Sherlock, beautiful, technicolor Sherlock seemed to be trying to paint himself grey. And John couldn't shake the feeling that it was somehow his fault, and he couldn't bear that. To the rest of the world, he was brick and mortar and spikes and spines but Sherlock, Sherlock seemed to bypass all that. No, all dealings with Sherlock took place in an entirely different part of John. Perhaps more in line with the doctor in him. John wanted to care for Sherlock. To shelter him and protect him and maybe even just hold him. 

And this sudden deprivation of the right to care for that wonderfully technicolor man made him ache. It was like having the wind knocked out of him. Finally, John had had enough. He got home from his work at the clinic at the usual hour, and as he arrived home to the living room Sherlock made to scuttle, as was becoming usual, to his bedroom, when John spoke up.

"No. Sit. Here. Now." He said, emphasizing each word and pointing to Sherlock's chair. Hesitant, Sherlock approached him warily, like a young deer.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, I just want to talk to you! You've been ignoring me for ages and you bought milk and the skulls gone and the flats clean and I can't bloody fucking stand it so would you please just sit down and talk to me. Please, Sherlock."

"It was a hypothesis. A shoddy one, as it turns out." Said Sherlock quietly, after a pause, looking at the ground, still standing but not running away.

"What was?" Asked John, moving closer, only a foot or so away from Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up to meet his eye. "You have to understand, I don't know what's in those thoughts. The ones of mine, that you have. But I know myself, and I know the general idea of the important stuff I deleted, and it's, well. Not good. Very, very not good. And there's more, more that I didn't bother to write down, to keep record of, and it's probably worse; and you're so. You. You're alchemy and sun showers and you're like a wildflower, you can flourish anywhere, and I'm. Well. Not good. And you know that now. You know that stark and blunt and and you could be so happy, so easily, somewhere with some woman behind a picket fence with 2.5 kids and not here with a fucked up, train wreck sociopath flatmate, and I can't quite give you a picket fence, but I though maybe if I tried, tried to be normal, maybe you wouldn't leave." He looked to John helplessly. 

"Sherlock" was all John could manage, his voice hoarse."Sherlock." He closed the gap between them, slotting his head under Sherlock's chin and wrapping his arms around his thin, fit torso and holding him tight, not even bothering to care how it felt more right than it should've. He felt Sherlock's hands, unsteady, come to rest on his shoulder blades, squeezing back ever so slightly.

"John." So sad, so pleading, so broken it hurt John. 

"You look at me Sherlock. Look at me." He said, breaking away just enough to meet Sherlock’s eye. "You are amazing. And smart. And wonderful. And technicolor. And I. Will. Never. Leave. You."

Sherlock shook his head violently." No! John, you're alchemy. Alchemy. I don’t.... you're...."

John chuckled a bit at this. " Sherlock, you only think I'm alchemy because you don't know some of the things I've done." At this, John sat down on the sofa, pulling Sherlock with him, so Sherlock's back was resting against his chest.

"It can't be that bad." Sherlock said, still wary to relax into John's comfortable warmth.

" Well, I got into bar fights during collage a lot, for one thing. And. Well. When I was in the service. I um. I had a boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock questioned. 

"Yes, alright, well, I play for both teams, okay? That's not the point. The point is that. Well. You have to understand it's not easy for me to talk about. But he was supposed to be taking recruits out, but we'd been. Well. And we fell asleep afterwards, see, but it was really my fault because I. Well. At any rate, he was late in taking them out because of me, and because of it all the recruits died. And he. Well. It was horrible, Sherlock. Point being, there's...there's dark stuff in every life. I'm not leaving you, so long as you're not leaving me. But for the love of god, would you put the flat back to how it was?"

Sherlock paused, before curling up into the warmth of John's jumper clad chest. "Gladly. Later. I'm comfortable now."

John could hear the smile in his voice.


	9. Marylebone Road to Knox Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John attempts to go on a date, and Sherlock is not amused.

And so normalcy was once again properly banished from the flat. Cases came and went, like day and night. 3 am sonatas and late night stake outs once again took their rightful places, as did the skull on the mantle. And when not occupied chasing down criminals or arguing over board games (" Sherlock, I am not going to play Cluedo with you when you've deleted the rules! And don't pretend you haven't, I know you have, they're in my head!"), John and his once again technicolor roommate took their rightful places on the sofa.

It was a comfortable position that had become, since that fateful conversation about how Sherlock needn't put on airs for John, a bit like breathing. John sat to the far right of the couch, turned ever so slightly to the left. Sherlock sprawled over the other two thirds of the sofa, with his back propped up against John's chest. They'd sit like that through tea, or dinner, or telly, but more often they'd just sit, occasionally speaking, content in each others company.

It had also become Sherlock’s favorite time to delete things, snuggled up against John's chest. It was nearly painless for both of them there, the information sliding quick and clean from one body to another. It was intimate, but neither quite felt compelled to voice that, for intimacy was a subject that remained unbreeched.

John, for his part, was doing his best to ignore the electrifying warmth that flooded his chest when he held Sherlock close. It was probably, he reasoned, an entirely lost cause. Sherlock didn't do relationships, clearly, and even if he did, John was. Well. John. Without Sherlock, he was an uninteresting, unassuming, unimportant, bitter ex soldier. And Sherlock, Sherlock was everything, all at once. He was both entirely logical and singularly irrational; beautiful and jarring, unstable and yet, in that, constant. In the span of a sentence, he could be kind and cruel, prideful and self hating, unyielding and strong and yet undeniably needy. He was indescribably incandescent. He was everything.

...........

John didn't really like Sarah. That is to say, he didn't dislike her, but she was rather....boring. Normal. That said, when she asked him out for a drink, he wasn't going to say no. With all the action he was seeing on the streets, chasing criminals, he could use a drink, as well as some action of a different kind.

It had been ages since he'd been out on an honest to goodness date, and he found himself spending most of the afternoon getting ready. After changing his clothes several times, he even unearthed some cologne to dab on his neck. At around six thirty, he finally felt he looked decent, and relocated to the living room from his bedroom, to tell Sherlock not to wait up.

Sherlock, however, cut him off before he could. "You're going on a date tonight. "He proclaimed, a sneer playing his face.

"H-"John began, but Sherlock cut him off again.

"Oh, don't bother asking how I know. Cologne, nice shoes, judging by the out of time you spent in your bedroom and the fact that I have no doubt you had forgotten you owned those jeans until this afternoon, you changed your clothes at least three times. And now you've come into the living room, probably to tell me not to wait up." With this, he flopped dramatically down on the sofa.

"Err, yes." John conceded. When no response was garnered, he turned towards the door. "Well. Um. Don't wait up."

..................

Drinks with Sarah were, as expected, boring, although his chances of getting laid seemed fairly high given how giggly and handsy she'd gotten. It was only around seven thirty when his head began to hurt in that specific way that meant only one thing, which was odd, because Sherlock didn't often delete thing when he wasn't home anymore. The boldface type came through a moment later.

Marylebone Road to Knox Street  
Knox Street to York Street  
York Street to Baker Street

The directions home. Sherlock had deleted the directions home, from the pub where John was. 'Git' thought John fondly 'I didn't even tell him where I was going'

And he went back to flirting with Sarah. 

The bold-faced type came through again ten minutes later, in all capitals this time.

MARYLEBONE ROAD TO KNOX STREET  
KNOX STREET TO YORK STREET  
YORK STREET TO BAKER STREET

accompanied by a chime from his cellphone, heralding a message from Sherlock.

If convenient, follow them now.  
If inconvenient, do so anyway. SH

Which made John giggle a bit, but Sarah was leaning over to nip at his ear, and he let that take all his focus for the moment.

It continued to take all his focus, although it ceased to be a nip at his ear and instead became plush, strawberry flavored lips on his own, although he couldn't seem to lose himself in the kiss as he had done with others. Perhaps, he thought, because it was all she was to him, really. 

And so when the directions came through a third time, this time bolder and thicker and rugged around the edges, pleading, 

MARYLEBONE ROAD TO KNOX STREET  
KNOX STREET TO YORK STREET  
YORK STREET TO BAKER STREET

Accompanied with three texts from Sherlock in quick succession

Please SH  
I bet she's not even interesting. I'M interesting.SH  
Please come home. SH

John needed little more convincing. 

..............

As he climbed the stairs to Baker Street, having made his excuses to Sarah, it occurred to him that it was a little odd, this whole. ..thing. His brain was somewhat alcohol fogged, and he was less than prepared for the sight that met him when he opened the door to his flat.

Sherlock, in his blue dressing gown and, as usual, not much else, was sitting I'm his chair, pouring intently over what appeared to be a map of London with certain streets highlighted. He was completely absorbed in what lay before him, and John could not banish the overwhelming thought that he was utterly gorgeous like that. 

"Is that how you did it, then? Memorized the route, deleted it, memorized the route again, and deleted it some more?Clever, but then, you always are." John remarked, leaning on the doorframe, drinking in Sherlock's intensity. Sherlock looked up suddenly, noticing John's presence. He stood up silently, and prowled over, all quiet fire and vehemence, dressing gown swishing gracefully, until he was standing entirely within John's personal space, his eyes flashing slightly different hues when the light caught them just so as he locked them with John's own.

"The better question is, I think, why?"John asked, smiling faintly. He could feel Sherlock's heat, could hear his breathing. It sounded like comfort. At his words, Sherlock recoiled slightly, closing his eyes tight.

"Please." He croaked. "Don't ever, ever do that again."

"What? Go on a date? Sherlock, I like dates." Said John, leaning just a touch further towards Sherlock.

"Please don't. Not...not with other people."said Sherlock carefully, opening his eyes again, the expression on his face reminiscent of the one he'd worn on that morning when John had found him playing violin. 

Vulnerable.  
Open.  
Hopeful, even.

But this was different, too, his eyes tinged with a nervousness, a small, uncertain fear.

It dawned on John slowly what he was saying.

"Not with other people? Sherlock, are y-" John began, leaning further in, this voice muddled with a mixture of awe and doubt and hope.

"Yes." Sherlock cut him off with a whisper, barely audible.

It was a simple thing, to close the distance between the two of them. Quick, and quiet, only the slightest bit of difference from their initial positions. And yet, it was a world of change.

Sherlock tasted like sugar-laden tea and too many cigarettes and home.

The kiss deepened as John tried to drown himself in the flavor, his hands now fervently tangled in Sherlock's hair, as he was pressed up against a wall by his one and only beautiful, wonderful technicolor man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was kinda fluffy, but oh well.  
> I'm not from london, so I used Google Maps for a vague sense of direction, but I'm sorry if their entirely incorrect.  
> As always, thanks for reading! :)


	10. Specific Bird Calls and Their Implications About Climate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Fluff. Lots of it. Probably not fantastic. 
> 
> I'm so so so sorry for the wait! Life is busy sometimes. 
> 
> Thank you to all you lovely people reading this!
> 
> Comments and kudos are super appreciated! 
> 
> Thank you guys!

Kisses, like all things, eventually end. After all, everything is finite, and kisses are no different. If anything, they are distinctly so. Like a bomb with a fuse, all fire and adrenaline and then, explosion. Or like a river, drifting lazily till it eventually becomes so muddled with the ocean it ceases to be itself. Which one, of course, depends on the kind of kiss.

The kiss at hand, shared between the technicolor man and his loyal companion, would appear to fall under the category of the former. All heat, and passion, and need. But it came to its end much in the same way the latter does; slowly, and softly, and quietly.

John cradled Sherlock's face in his hands carefully, as Sherlock's arms encircled his waist. Neither could be certain when the kissing became just holding, smiling, wordless and content, but neither wanted to break the moment. 

"Do you know " mused John quietly after an unquantifiable amount of time,"I think maybe, maybe we were meant to do this from the beginning. "

Sherlock hummed noncommittally in response, squeezing his eyes shut, a cautious smile still playing his lips. 

"I've been meaning to ask, you know", said John, as Sherlock leaned in a bit closer, seeking John's warmth, " if you've figured it out. Why we're. Well. You know. The way we are. Connected. Scientifically speaking, I mean."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, although the smile quirkiness his lips did not diminish. "John Watson, I have an explanation for everything. I can tell you which streets of London are statically more likely to have crimes committed on them, I know what specific bird calls say about the climate of an area, I know how likely it is that any given website will crash. But in the time we've known each other, I've never had any explanation for you."

"You'd think it'd drive you batty." Teased John quietly, now laying his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"Batty? One might say it's why I find you so endearing." Sherlock teased back shyly.

"Oh, is it now? Even with your massive intellect, you still can't figure me out, so you've fallen for me, eh?"

" Simply put, yes."

John smiled broadly at this, leaning back from where he'd been resting his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. "Good. Because I think you'll find, the feeling is mutual."

.........................

To an outsider, the change would be nearly imperceptible. Strides just a touch more in step, eyes lingering just a moment too long, hands brushing casually for no good reason. To an outsider they might seem just the same. Sherlock and John, as they always had been. But within the walls of 221b, things held only a vague resemblance to the past. 

Dust collected heavily on the stairs leading up to John’s old bedroom which now stood locked and forgotten. Two toothbrushes now laid claim to the sink in Sherlock's en suit, and the bedroom itself no longer held a clinical air. It looked like a place that was enjoyed, the sheets rumpled in the outline of two bodies sleeping intertwined.

Sherlock was still, of course, Sherlock. He still lit things on fire, experimented on body parts, and was generally socially inept. John was still John. He still had a hard time expressing himself, and occasionally blew up. But now evenings were spent cuddling on the couch as opposed to sitting in separate chairs, and Mrs. Hudson had, on more than one occasion, caught them making out in the stairwell leading up to their flat.

As such, Sherlock, once a stony enigma, seemingly emotionless, smiled often, sometimes for no reason at all. Not the fake, I-want-to-seem-normal smile, either. An honest to god, actual smile.

And to John, for the first time in a long time, the world didn't seem so grey and harsh. After all, how could the world, if it were as horrible as he had thought it, lead him to Sherlock?

The deletion became an endearment. When they were seperate, it was a reminder of the bond they shated. When they were together, it was intimate, sacred. A sign of love.

And so the months went, leading them through case after case and, eventually, to that horrible pool on that horrible night at yet still, in spite of everything, they clung to one another.

............. ........

One stormy night saw John's sleeping turn restless in Sherlock's arms, the thunder up welling memories from the war and more recent memories from the pool and horrifying decisions where Sherlock was dying and there was blood everywhere, all smeared together with Moriarty's voice playing backdrop.

'Sorry boys, I'm soooooo of changeable!'

John woke with a scream, drenched in sweat.

"John?! John, what...are you...are you alright?" Sherlock panicked at first, as he remembered John's PTSD his words became more soothing as he sat up and held his lover close.

John didn't speak, didn't wimper, simply cried and burrowed into Sherlock's chest, tears streaming down his face.

"Sh, it's okay, it's okay, don't...don't worry , John, please, it's okay..." Sherlock felt helpless. He was never much for comfort or kind words, but he just wanted to be able to make John feel safe.

Out of no where, an idea came to him. The memory of a poem. One of his favorites, not that he would admit it. He had clung to it in the wake of his own darkest hours. Shifting slightly, he pressed his forehead against John's, who was now straddling him in an attempt to keep him as close as possible.

"Sh, love, I'm here."

The deletion was easy, effortless like this, pleasantly tingly as opposed to painful. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the words leave him. 

Hope is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

Sherlock let his eyes flutter open, leaning back and blushing as John whipped his eyes with the backs of his hands. 

"Emily Dickenson."said John softly in awe. Sherlock looked down, pink creeping up his alabaster neck and coloring his cheekbones.

"Yes. Well. Hope, John. Keep hope." He said, after clearing his throat.

"I didn't think," said John slowly "you believed in hope."

"Well not...not always but there...there have bee. Times when it was all I had. Obviously, obviously I don't remember most of them, but...but I never deleted the hope. But in recent years, I had perhaps lost my belief in it. You, you gave it back to me."Sherlock slowly raised his eyes to meet John's. 

John smiled tenderly, his tears forgotten, lifting his hand to Sherlock's face. "You should know," he said as he leaned in " you've done the same for me."

Their lips met with quiet fervor, slowly but hard, filled with passion.

Despite Dr . Watson's nightmares being banished, there was not much sleep for either party in the remaining hours of the night.


	11. Research and Foreboding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a notebook of Sherlock's.
> 
> Sherlock has fear, but won't talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm so, so sorry this is so late.
> 
> This is kind of the beginning of the end for this one, but I think I'm going to make this into a series.
> 
> Hope you like it :)

There is a beautifully blissful lull. Things are quiet, but they're Sherlock flavored quiet. The kind of quiet defined distinctly by a lacking of serial killers to chase down and an abundance bunsen burners on the kitchen table and screaming at the telley and microscopes and experiments.

Oh, but the experiments.

Sherlock, in his typical flair, had taken to relationships as he took to everything else. Clinically.

And it was just delicious.

John first found Sherlock's research journal on a soft sort of rainy Thursday, when London was drenched in the kind of weather that made the city look like a drippy watercolor in pastels.

The notebook itself was left casually on the nightstand, bookmarked in several places. The cover was a matte plum shade, and John's name was scribbled in the bottom right corner in dark, unassuming ink. Interest peaked, John flipped open to the first page.

A Scientific Account   
Of the Pleasures, Dislikes  
And General Feelings Of  
John Hamish Watson

8'00am

Subject A (John Hamish Watson) reacted favorably to the offer of coffee. Taken with milk, no sugar. 

8'15am

Subject A expressed irritation at location of body parts in refrigerator ("Jesus buggering- Sherlock, in the fruit bin? All mixed in with the apples??That's...That's unsanitary! That's...ugh") Said body parts were not moved, as they were properly sealed in container and therefore irritation expressed by Subject A was unfounded and illogical. However, refusal to move body parts resulted in Subject A's early and pointedly annoyed departure for work. Not intended or pleasurable outcome. However, research would suggest physical intimacy after altercation or argument is bound strengthening and releases high levels of endorphins. Will test validity of this claim on Subject A.

Experiment 1 

Hypothesis- Intimacy after altercation will result in overtly positive outcome.

Possible prosedures:

Procedure 1 

Seek out Subject A on his lunch break  
Find appropriately sheltered and secluded area (alleyway?)  
Initiate intimacy  
Deliver Subject A back to work

 

Procedure 2

Wait for Subject A in sitting room  
Initiate intimacy immediately

Procedure chosen:2

Justification for Selection: Subject A reacts most favorably when given adequet time to "deal with" anger.

Results:Success. Intimacy took place on couch for approximately 25 minutes before evolving into "'lazy kissing" and "snuggling". During post coidal snuggling Subject A said " you didn't get rid of the thumbs, did you?" And simply chuckled in response to my "no, of course not." 

Conclusion: Initiating intimacy after altercation or argument, ample time after said altercation or argument will result in a favorable outcome and may resolve the argument itself.

To be recorded in Accumulated Findings:

Subject A enjoys coffee with no sugar and approximately 4 tablespoons of milk.

Subject A dislikes body parts in the fruit bin.

Subject A will react favorably to intimacy initiated after argument or altercation, or, as referred to by Subject A, "make up sex".

John couldn't help but smile as he remembered that day. John had gotten up at seven, as usual, making breakfast. Sherlock had woken up an hour or so later, and while John didn't distinctly remember making Sherlock and himself coffee, he was sure he had been the one to do so. Sherlock hardly ever did things like make coffee, which was neither here nor there, but he often asked for it, which, knowing Sherlock, was the 'offer of coffee' being referenced. 

John had then gone into the refrigerator to get some kind of fruit, and seen the thumbs, and he had blown up a bit, hadn't he, he did that sometimes, but that had been the fifth time he had asked Sherlock to keep the body parts in a separate part of the refrigerator than the food.

And so he had stormed off, in his usual mannor, it was better than screaming, a tactical retreat, and he had gone to work, and he had almost forgotten about the thumbs until he had come home to find Sherlock standing in the sitting room, staring intently at the door to their flat, and then shifted his gaze to meet John's eyes once John had entered the flat, all determination and resolve and this glint of mischief before Sherlock took his face in his hands and kissed him.

It was such a surge, like a tidal wave, or a wild fire, and before John could register anything, he was crowded up against the wall and Sherlock's mouth was still claiming his own, and Sherlock's hands on his hips, pulling him closer, hard and commanding.

Sherlock's mouth moved then, with purpose, go his neck, sucking and biting and one of his long, lithe legs in between John's thighs and.

Well.

Exceedingly pleasurable outcome, indeed, thought John, looking down at the page.

Accumulated Findings, eh? Where was that? John thumbed through the tome curiously until he came upon the pages marked off 'Accumulated Findings'.

Accumulated Findings

Likes:  
-coffee, milk (4 tablespoons), no sugar  
-"make up sex"  
-jumpers (generally too large, "snuggly")  
-danger(but not when posed to me. Curious.)  
-writing(ie blog, adorable poems)  
-Mrs. Hudson  
-stargazing  
-tea  
-crap telley  
-cuddling while watching crap telley  
-cuddling in general  
-kissing  
-bottoming  
-walks with no determined destination (illogical)  
-my purple shirt (he thinks I don't know)  
-helping people  
-topping  
-physical intimacy in general  
-cats (illogical. Dogs are far superior companions)  
\- women  
-men  
-Me (for some unfathomable reason)  
-Chinese take away  
-the color blue  
-peaches  
-deletion

Dislikes:  
-misplaced body parts  
-wearing tight fitting clothes (unfounded selfconsiousness. He is unspeakably attractive)  
-the countryside  
-Cluedo  
-Mycroft(I quite agree)  
-candles(issues with strong scent)  
-assumptions  
-oranges  
-my not taking " proper care" of myself  
-the color yellow  
-Moriarty (I dotn know if I agree, he's interesting)  
-having his picture taken(more unfounded self consciousness)  
-lightning and thunder (PTSD)

John smiled as he read the lists, their commentary so very Sherlock, the bulleted items so very accurate.

His concentration was then broken by a deep chuckle that was all too familiar. John whirled around to see Sherlock leaning on the doorframe, watching him.

"I see you found my scrapbook" he says, his voice low and somewhere between nervous and hopeful.

"Scraobook?" John asks, giving Sherlock a crooked smile. "More like a research journal."

"Not at all." Sherlock counters. " I keep all my important science research cheifly in my mind palace."

"Oh?" Says John, stepping closer.

"I only make physical copies of the ones I delete." Sherlock explains. "I guess you know about those."

"The finer uses of lizard, yes. But I'm not sure I understand, you haven't deleted any of this" John replied stepping closer, now only an inch from Sherlock.

"Well, its true I have no practical use for physical documentation of our time together, as I have never deleted a moment of our time together. And that you know to be true." Sherlock says, wrapping his arms around John's waist and pulls him up for a kiss."so it can't be a research journal, documentation isn't the point of it. It's...it's sentimental." Sherlcok finished explaining, cheekbones colored a pale pink shade.

 

.............

Irene Adler is miffed at how very little attention the object of her obsession pays to her, and the minute she is finally out the door, Sherlock deletes everything he knew about her.

John catches his breath, and catches Sherlock's beautiful, technicolor eyes, and Sherlock simply nods, and kisses him.

............

Something happens.John can tell.

Sherlock won't talk about it, but he's afraid. Something's coming.

...................

Dartmoore is truly lovely, besides all the fear gas and whatnot.

If John were to squint, it might almost be like a vacation. 

Except that it isn't, except that the fear gas is very much there, except that there is a young man being intentionally driven out of his mind, except that they watch a man get blown up, and its nothing he hasn't seen before, nothing he's unfamiliar with, and so he writes up the case and people rave about it.

But he doesn't put on the blog how silent Sherlock was that night back at the hotel, how he sat, knees pulled into his chest in a chair near the window, not speaking, how Sherlock deleted the entire case while John was in the shower, how when John asks about it Sherlock just shrugs and says he had to to stay unattached, that it was too...too, and how he trailed off there, looking sad and distracted, and how the next morning the melancholy hadn't left him.

John didn't put any of that in the blog.

He just holds him tightly.

And he takes extra care now, when they're lying in bed at night to hold Sherlock close and whisper that there's nothing John won't protect him from.

..........

It begins with a painting and too many reporters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope that was good. I'm not sure.
> 
> I live for comments and kudos : )
> 
> Thank you lovely people so, so much for reading!!


	12. In the key of G Major

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock sacrifices, and John often passes out.

Things aren't quiet anymore, and while John isn't particularly unhappy about that, he's apprehensive. Sherlock absolutely preens in the news coverage, even if he tries to hide it. Loves being the center of attention. On the flip side, when he isn't smug over the little people fawning at his intelligence, he's moody and quietly worried. He switches between the two dispositions at the drop of a hat but lately it's almost always one of the two.

Almost.

He isn't smug when he's kissing John worried, because he's KISSING JOHN. And so John makes a point of kissing Sherlock as often as possible.

Not that that wasn't John's perogative anyway.

And when John was kissing Sherlock, he wasn't worried either.

Kissing Sherlock was comfortable and chaos, the solace and the storm all in one.

Kissing Sherlock meant everything would be okay, and that nothing would be normal.

But everything wasn't okay, and even while it was happening it was happening too fast and too quietly for John to really understand it, but Sherlock was being arrested and then Mrs Hudson was shot, but not actually, not really, and nothing made sense and everything was wrong and he could feel it, in his very core, he could taste it, electrifying and pungent and sickening in the air, everything was wrong and nothing was right.

In his pocket somehow infinitely in the distance, his phone rang.

Numb and confused, he slowly extracted it from his jacket with trembling fingers, standing in the middle of a bustling Avenue, somewhere in between home and Sherlock, even though that was impossible because Sherlock was home.

Sherlock Holmes, the caller ID heralded with no consciousness of how horrifying this was because Sherlock TEXTED, he didn't call and John stared disbelievingly and nervous for too many seconds before pressing answer and holding the phone and making for Barts with quick, nervous strides.

"John."

Sherlock's voice is all at once hesitant and certain, because that man always had to be a fucking paradox, didn't he, couldn't he just be an easy thing for once, couldn't he just be here, so he could kiss him again and everything would be okay-but John pushed those thoughts aside and quickened his pace to a run because Sherlock's voice was shaking and that was bad, very bad, John had to find him had to find-"Sherlock?Sherlock, where are you?"

\- had to find him, had to hold him, everything wasn't okay but it would be, he just had to

"This phone call...this phone call is my note, John."

His note what was he talking about his note this was so wrong, so bloody wrong-"Sherlock, are you okay?" stupid question, stupid question, of course he wasn't okay, nothing was bloody fucking okay, why was he on the ro- no, no, no he can't-

"Turn around and go back the way you came."

No no no thanks, find the words, damn it "I'm coming in, Sherlock" don't do it, stay, please, he was clutching the phone so hard his knuckles were beyond white.

"Just. Do as I ask, okay? I-i-i-i can't come down, so we'll have to do it like this."

And John listened, like he always did, dammit why, his breath ragged, no and please and think and stop and kiss me coursing through his veins.

"Stop." Said Sherlock, his deep voice pervaded with emotion, on the precipice of falling entirely apart.

John had a clear view of Sherlock now, and he could feel himself shaking, and "oh god" escaped his lips and distractedly he thought that Sherlock truly was a god and that if he could only talk him through this he'd be happy to devote every hour of every Sunday to the worship of that Technicolor man who was now twitching on the edge of the roof, looking wind blown and tortured and somehow impassioned and then he went back to thinking no ,please, stop, kiss me, come down here, say the words, damnit-

And then Sherlock was blabbering about how it he was a hoax, how it was all fake, and he was lying, John could tell when he lied, but he was speaking in such a way that John could tell he was trying hard to make it sound believable and why? Why? Why and no, no, please-

John heard himself contradict Sherlock, his voice sounding week and foreign, his mind pulsing, his arms feeling empty for lack of the other man's form, and he tried to move again, tried to go to Sherlock, but Sherlock said no, and John listened, damn it, why did he always do that, listen, and Sherlock said please, please watch him, and last time Sherlock had said that they'd been in bed and Sherlock has been between Johns legs and it had been wonderful and so very okay and so starkly different from here, from now, but the words were the same and John obeyed both times-

"This phone call" Sherlock repeated " this phone call is my note." He paused. Find the words, John, find the words, say something, kiss him, but he's too far, he said stay here " that's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note?"

"Leave a note when?" Stupid question, you already know the answer, stupid, stupid, keep him talking, don't let him

"Goodbye, John."

The stark black of Sherlock scope passing rapidly against the degree of everything else was a beautiful and horrible contrast. John feels himself shout, no, don't, Sherlock and then the biker hit him from behind, but he doesn't feel that, not really, everything's fuzzy then, but he careens forward, and then everyones huddled around Sherlock on the ground, and

"He's my friend, let me through, let me through" he can feel tears on his cheeks and he doesn't know why friend is the word he chooses, they were so much more than that, but there wasn't a word really, for what they were, boyfriend was so juvenile, lover seemed ill suited, partner sounded too much like something Mycroft would say, so friend would have to do but it didn't do it justice, Sherlock wasn't his friend, Sherlock was his bloody world, but he couldn't very well say excuse me, let me through, that's my world bleeding all over the pavement there.

The stark purple red of Sherlocks blood spilling too fast out onto the grey of everything else was a beautiful and horrible contrast.

John passed out.

...............

He woke up in his bed.

Not Sherlocks bed, which they had shared, but his old one, up the dusty unused stairs and it was so infinitely disconcerting and wrong that he didn't even bother to question how he got there.

He let his military kick in, robotically getting out of bed, hobbling down the stairs with a pronounced limp.

He found the kitchen which felt like an accomplishment, because the kitchen seemed several countries away, and after staring dumbly at the half completed experiments on the counter for a good 10 minutes he blinked, turned on his heel, and put the tea kettle on. He sat on the floor then, pulling his knees up to his chest, and waited for it to whistle.

It whistled.

He didn't move.

Mrs Hudson made him tea later in the morning. She left quickly after sputtering for a moment without being able to find the proper words.

John drink the tea slowly, mechanically before rising abruptly, tossing the purple floral mug in the sink before locating the most recent take away and reluctantly contemplating eating it.

An hour or so past, or perhaps it was an eternity, Johns perception of time was a bit off, before John through what was left of the takeaway (he had taken a few bites, but he couldn't manage more) and decided, numbly, to go to the park.

He hadn't been to the park since his fateful encounter with Mike Stamford, and it seemed as good a place as any to be.

His limp was horrendous.

He found a bench.

The world was grey.

All at once, exhaustion hit him.

John passed out.

............

He was awoken by a prickling in his forehead, which at first, in his groggy consciousness, he took to mean Sherlock was deleting something. Then he sat bolt upright suddenly wide awake. Sherlock couldn't be deleting anything. Sherlock was dead. And he began to cry, and the pain in his head worsened, but then it eased and in its place impossibly were the bold face words

'Hey There in G'

And suddenly his mind and ears and whole being was filled with the melody of 'Hey There Delilah being played on a violin. John stopped breathing. This was impossible. He can't, Sherlock, Sherlock was dead. This couldn't be real.

But how else could this happen, his subconscious asked in wonder as the notes climbed, crescendoing into the chorus.

How to be sure.

He must be sure.

He looked around wildly his eyes landing on an advert for electronics and suddenly he knew what to do.

And so he sprinted back to Baker Street, all while the second verse of Hey There Delilah in G major was running through his veins.

The post on his blog read:  
Thank you to the wonderful person who sent me the incredibly thoughtful song in this trying time and in return I offer this YouTube link to a song I think they will appreciate. If this person received my message, could they kindly send me my middle name in the same method they sent the song so I can confirm they got my returning song and verify their identity.  
Cheers  
John

The link lead to a song by Mumford and Sons called I will wait. John had spent a long time deliberating what song to pick, in his jittery excitement and apprehension, and had settled on this one only after a long internal debate.

If Sherlock did indeed receive it, John hoped he liked it.

He hoped he wasn't going insane and hallucinating.

Mostly, he just hoped, which can be a dangerous thing.

But not five minutes after his post went live he received a firm  
HAMISH  
in bold upper case letters and he grinned a watery grin and typed 'thank you' in to the post box on his blog.

Everything wasn't okay. But it was going to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little different from my usual style, much more stream of consciousness, but I'm actually pretty happy with it :)
> 
> Comments and kudos light up my world 
> 
> Thank you amazing people so much for reading!!


	13. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which songs are exchanged, and there is a homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there are a whole bunch of songs in this chapter. The songs John sends Sherlock are in italics and the songs Sherlock sends John and in bold. 
> 
> John's songs-  
> Just a boy by Angus and Julia stone  
> Do you think of me by Misha B  
> Same stars by mat   
> I love you, always forever  
> Waiting for you by adele
> 
> Sherlock's songs-  
> Rivers and roads- the head and the heart  
> Somebody loved by the weepies  
> You are my sunshine  
> I'm coming Home- Skylar grey
> 
> Thanks , enjoy!!

In the months that follow, songs are a nightly exchange. John's are usually questions-

_i bit my tounge in the arc of conversation_

_i don't know why, i don't know why_

because that was John's place in the relationship, waiting in confusion, fighting the grey in worship of the technicolor man-

_i met you once, and i'd fallen for your notions_

_i don't know why, i don't know why_

without any concrete reason to, just because it was Sherlock, and he was John, and it suites him down to the bloody ground even if it left him-

_do you believe there are treasures in the ocean?_

_did i say i'm just a boy?_

with nothing but questions because Sherlock was answers, even if he was a bit backward, and he didn't try to follow Sherlock,

_no lonely hands to grab my suitcase full of nothing_

_i dont know why, I don't know why_

because he trusted Sherlock, and as long as there were songs it meant he would come home, meant he wasn't really gone,

_you took me in, gave me something to believe in_

_that big old smile was all you wore_

John would be there waiting, always

_did i say i'm just a boy_

_you can hold me to that_

and in the meantime Sherlock always answered

**nothing is as it has been**

**and I miss your face like hell**

_are you thinking about me from time to time? do i ever cross your mind, baby do i?_

**_rivers and roads, rivers and roads_ **

**_Rivers till I reach you_ **

_when i'm looking at the moon_

_are you looking at it too?_

**rain turns the sand into mud, wind turns the trees into bone**

**Stars turning high up above, you turn me, into somebody loved**

and so life went on, and sometimes John was lonely, and sometimes he was angry Sherlock was gone, but mostly he was pretty okay, and that was good. The world seemed to tiptoe around him, as they would anyone in his position, but they didn't know what he knew, they didn't have Sherlock in their heads, so he let them coddle him.

There was a new nurse at the clinic. Mary, or Marie, or something like that. If she made a pass at John, he didn't notice.

_i'll leave the light on in case you come back i'm pinning my hopes on you_

**you are my sunshine**

_but you're a life away_

_do you hear me calling your name?_

**my only sunshine**

_every time the night falls down_

_do you wonder what i'm doing now_

**You make me happy when skies are grey**

_do you think of me_

**You'll never know dear, how much I love you**

_i love you, always forever_

**Please don't take my sunshine away**

_near or far, closer together_

Sherlock's name was cleared, and John walked with new found bounce in his step. Everyone believed in his technicolor man again.

**i'm coming home, i'm coming home**

_ i'll be waiting for you _

**tell the world i'm coming home**

_when you're ready, to love me again_

It happened on the sort of September afternoon that's still trying really hard to be summer, but is sold out by the slowly falling leaves and faint scent of spices and pumpkin eminating from every coffee shop and bakery. It isn't quite a bad day, but it isn't quite a good day either and John's leg is not agreeing with the change in the weather so he takes cab home instead of walking. Mrs. Hudson's visiting her sister, so he's all by himself at Baker Street, and he finds he's rather lonely, as he sometimes finds on nights like these, and there's nothing on the telly but crap reruns and nothing in the refrigerator but week old take away and so he decides just to sit, pensive, and wait for the song which he knows is coming.

And he waits.

And he

 

waits.

And its 8:30, and its 9:30, and its 10:30, and then he starts to worry. Nothing. The only sound is the air conditioner whurring.

10:40.

He's never missed a night, never, and what if he just stops and sending them and John never heard from him again and what if he's forgotten and what if hes dead and John is suddenly acutely aware of the tenuousness of their situation and oh god, what if, what if, what if,

Oh god.

My god.

Sherlock.

10:50 and John is pacing now, his leg's protests be damned, and something's wrong, something's off, wouldn't he have felt something, of Sherlock died, being that they were connected like they were, isnt that what happened in the movies, but this wasn't the movies, but he had nothing else to go on because what but movies even came close to this...this thing they had with their minds and all and

10:55 there's a knock on the door and all at once John KNOWS and he bounds down the stairs like a child at christmas and throws open the door and there he is, in all his splendor, looking worse for the wear but unmistakably Sherlockian and its beautiful and its wonderful and John all but throws himself at him, cradling the back of his head and pressing their bodies close and their lips find each other and its hard and rough without time for decency or ritual and John can feel tears on his face and he doesn't know if they're his or Sherlock's but he wimpers, pulling Sherlock down farther, closer to him by the nape of his neck, and Sherlock just says, "I know. I know."

And then theyre inside and up the stairs in 222b and god only knows how they managed that because God was Sherlock, and then the came apart, their lips parting with an obsense smaking, and then John discovered at least some of the tears had been his and then.

"How could you? " he sounded plaintive, even to himself, he couldn't muster up anger. "Why?"

"It was for you. He would've killed you, Moriarty. It was that, or this and i..." But John cut him off, not trusting his voice, simply putting his arms firmly around Sherlock's neck and holding him, burying his face in Sherlock's chest and breathing him in and he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat and Sherlock had his face in John's hair and he kept saying  something, whispering it, reverant

Mon amour

Mon amour

Mon amour

John extracted himself enough to to hold Sherlock's face tenderly in his hands, and hold his gaze, for nothing was more beautiful than the eyes of a technicolor man, this technicolor man, and then he leaned in, almost shyly, and kissed him, chastly on the lips before pulling back

"Te amo, you git" he whispered shakily before capturing Sherlock's lips once again with his own and reveling in the taste of sugar laden tea and too many cigarettes and home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, the happy ending. For now.
> 
> This has been a wonderful journey, thank you to all of you who stuck with me this whole time, and to those of you just joining us now. You are truly a blessing.
> 
> I have decided I am going to make this into a series, it will be titled the Deleted Files Series and it will follow Sherlock and John as they figure out more about the mysterious connection between them, and utilize it in different ways. I should probably have the first chapter of the next part up by next week. :")
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are literally the best things in the universe.
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so that was probably less than fantastic writing, but I'm really excited for where the plot is going and this is only the first chapter, so bear with me, guys. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I should have the next chapter up in the next couple days or so.


End file.
